My toenails are painted pink to match the dress for my mom’s wedding. Not last weekend but the weekend before.
Shiny pink that made me feel so pretty. Fitted to my body, making my face glow. I need to feel pretty right now.
So I went to get a manicure and pedicure the evening before my Mom’s wedding. I had wasted most of the day away,
reading emails and reading my old writing, and so now I was pressed for time. I was supposed to spend part of the
day at the hotel with Mom and Matt and Sandi. But I didn’t. And I only felt a little guilty. I have enough guilt
right now. No more room for Mom’s or Matt’s.
Pressed for time. I was going to go to the nail salon I know always does a good job, always clean, always sanitary.
Near my old apartment in Brighton. I had gone there with Danielle in April, to make myself feel pretty. During
the period when I knew it was an affair. I needed to feel pretty. But this time there was no time for Brighton.
So I went around the corner. My fingers were massaged and my nails perfectly painted - glittery pink, just like
my dress. I have a good eye for color, my mom said. Just like her. Matched perfectly.
And then the pedicure. Filing the toenails. Soaking the feet. Pushing back the cuticles. Sharp pain. Really sharp
pain. And then blood. Lots of blood. Antiseptic. Green antiseptic. And still blood. Cotton pressed to the blood.
Green antiseptic. 25 minutes of bleeding. And the woman was shocked, at how it wouldn’t stop bleeding. And so was
I. And instead of being angry, I felt sorry and so I apologized. Apologized for bleeding so much and taking up
so much of their time. And it hurt and it looked horrible and it was making me late and it would hurt under my
glittery shoes for the wedding the next day, but I apologized and gave extra money for a tip. Because I am used
to apologizing when I am the one who is hurt.
Her finger was hurt at the end of March. She slammed it in a door when she went to her apartment to pick things
up. Because she had been kicked out for a few days. Because she had admitted that she loved me. Or so she told
me.
And I wanted so very badly to go with her to the hospital, to prove how good I was at taking away hurt. But she
wouldn’t let me. Instead she came over when she was done, finger in a splint. And I heated up the lasagna I had
bought that day with my mom. And spoon-fed it to her. And gently rubbed Arnica gel all over her finger. So that
it wouldn’t hurt so much. And I cried as I did it. Because I thought if I made her hurt go away mine would go away
too. And I thought if I succeeded in easing her pain she would be nice to me and validate me and I always liked
her better when she was nice to me.
Only I didn’t. Because somehow those other sides of her - dismissive, angry, accusatory, crazy, mean, fragmented,
sad, hurt, defensive, out of control - they were all real. They made my hurt more real. They let me bleed. Constantly
bleed. Like my toe. And I thought I needed that.
At the wedding, my mom’s friends told me how beautiful I looked. In my shiny pink dress and my nails to match and
my glittery shoes pressing against my swollen purple toe. How had I lost the weight? "Oh, I was in an abusive
relationship and didn’t eat for three months." And then they all talked with me. Validating. Listening. Understanding.
“Everyone’s looking for acceptance, Lani.” "Not me anymore," I say. "Not from her at least."
Everyone is, they all say. And they all let me cry. And tell me of their own past dramas. And they are interested.
Truly interested. And they all get it. And they are not angry and they do not make me stop. "Your mother still
hasn’t told us you are gay," they all say. They heard it from my dad or from their kids or some other way
through the Jewish grapevine, but not from my mom.
My brother says it shouldn’t matter. Denial. Alternate realities. At the reception, he made a mean comment to me.
And I did not fight back. And my mom’s friends pointed out that he was being mean. And I flashed him a look. Part
hurt, part anger, part validation. And he mumbled, “Yeah, whatever, I’ll be the first person she’ll call when she
has a problem.” And then another look. Incredulous. And a response. “I would never call you with a problem. I never
do. You don’t care.” And then I know he is my mom and I wonder where I came from. Or how they can keep that up.
Or how she keeps it up.
And by the night of the wedding I was tired of it. Of the guilt and the pretending and the nods and the smiles.
And we were ordering pizza at the hotel and my mom gave me two sets of money, accompanied by an explanation I did
not understand. And I told her so, nicely. And she explained it again the same way. And I still did not understand.
And she explained it again the same way, only now angry and yelling. “Mom, you can yell at me and be angry and
I still won’t understand, or you can try to explain it to me in another way and then maybe I’ll understand.” And
she just flashed me a look. Of anger. And guilt. Only now I didn’t feel guilty. Because I am tired of apologizing
for being hurt. Or for not understanding. So she gave the money to my cousin.
And she gave herself to someone else. Someone else who will keep apologizing. And I am still jealous of that. Only
I am not. Because of last weekend. When my ankle bled for a half hour after the shaving cut - Pride weekend. And
it bled right through my Band-Aid at Pride. Right onto my glittery shoes from the wedding. Blood stained shoes.
I could have bled to death.
Yesterday I realized my toe was getting infected. When I was at her friend's house. Right after she had called
her.
So I put antibiotic and a Band-Aid on it. To make it heal.
Screws are useless to me. I’ve had a bag of screws sitting in my cabinet, the one with the loose handle that
needs to be screwed back in, for almost a year.
Useless.
It’s the same cabinet where I put her cards to me - two of them - on display in January. To look at. Or for her
to see.
Now those are also useless.
And to her, now I am useless.
And I feel useless most of the time. Because the very things I thought I was good at - caring for people, loving
people, filling people’s needs - were the very things she told me I couldn’t do. I was emotionally immature, self
centered, defensive. Only occasionally she held me on a pedestal, that pedestal I had lovingly constructed for
her, and reassured me that really I was good at taking care of her. When I let myself do so. When I stopped seeing
her as the enemy. When I trusted her. When considered her needs before my own.
Useless.
I had convinced myself I was a useless teacher. My kids had learned nothing. One whole year and they had learned
nothing. Or worse, they had regressed. Like I had. Projection is an interesting thing.
And so last week, when they were filling out compliment sheets for one another, I told them they were welcome to
write compliments to me, too. They didn’t have to, but they could. Maybe I needed to feel a little less useless.
Because I’m just that emotionally immature.
1. Ms. Radack: very organized, very smart, mentally strong.
2. I like the way you pick on me.
3. I like how you're creative with teaching.
4. You are a great teacher even though I could get out of hand. Thanks for being there.
5. Ms. Radack: understanding, fun, creative and smart.
6. I appreciate you teaching us to set our expectations higher and never limit our learning.
7. I admire your English skills.
8. I like your spunk.
9. I admire your teaching style.
10. I admire the way your always there to help your students.
11. I like the fact that your always coming up with new ideas.
12. I enjoy your teaching.
13. She's been a great teacher who taught me how to keep myself in line. Good luck in Grad School.
14. I admire your persistence.
15. I love how Ms. Radack don't ever give up with us and tries to keep us going to the top.
16. I admire your teaching, person that understand people, and give people chances.
17. I like your childish ways.
18. I admire that when you sense something is wrong, you bring it to the light. Or when you don't like something
or how someone is acting you let them know.
19. You are a very nice teacher and you are the second best. You help me a lot in your class and I learned a lot
of words and my reading and writing. I am glad I was in your class for my freshman year. Thanks Ms. Radack.
20. I like how you act like a kid sometimes.
21. I admire her happy attitude.
22. I like that she jolly most of the time.
23. I love the way you are outgoing, not afraid to do stuff in front of others, caring, and very funny. Oh I also
love your jokes. Ha Ha Ha!
24. You are a good English teacher.
25. I admire your great personality and your writing skills. You're an inspiration to me and you are an incredible
English teacher :)
26. You have an outstanding ability to write and your a good teacher and you have taught us well :)
27. Ms. Radack - A wonderful and beautiful person. Who cares so much about other people.
28. You actions show good things about you.
29. I like the way you are original and think for yourself.
30. I love your personality.
31. You are extremely smart.
32. I like how you teach the class.
33. She is nice and respectful.
34. I admire the way you teach.
And I cried as I read them. Not as useless as I thought.
Like when I began doing the final reading assessments for the Reading class. And Melissa was first. From a 4th
grade oral reading level to grade 9/10. In one year. And she beamed. And so did I. Now she is not as screwed.
Like the final exams where they had to write how they’d grown as a reader or a writer over the year. And they remembered
things I hadn’t expected them to - about grammar and imagery and metaphors and memoirs and journalism. How they
individually thanked me for broadening their vocabulary so now they felt more confident as readers. And as writers.
And less useless.
Markia. Markia who was one my biggest pains in the ass all year, but Markia who has that sparkle about her that
doesn’t allow you to stay too mad for too long. Markia who moved to sit on the floor ½ way through the exam
and I tried to say something but Markia who just sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. Markia whose exam was more
insightful than many of the students’ exams who read grade levels ahead of her. Markia. Markia wrote that here
at HCA teachers notice you. And that that is a good thing. Because it makes you try. How teachers noticed her trouble
with reading. And no one had ever noticed that before. And now reading was one of her favorite things to do. Because
now she felt good at it.
And that was repeated. In so very many exams. How many kids now loved to read and loved to write and suddenly their
standardized test scores didn’t bother me as much as they used to. Because kids thanked me. For showing them a
way to write down emotions. To get them out. To share their work with others and learn from others. How many kids
used to think writing was boring and stupid, but now kids who write every day when they get home. Because they
feel smart. And useful.
How many kids feel smart and useful because they got all the way through Romeo and Juliet. And liked it. Liked
how it was about teenagers back then and "teenagers back then were about who’s dating who and who just got
dumped, just like now," just like Sasha said.
And it doesn’t matter that ½ of them failed that very final.
And I so wanted to share those with her. Like I wanted to share the compliments. To prove to her, and thereby prove
to myself, that I am not useless. That I am not any of those things she convinced me I was. That she screwed me
over.
And it all makes me think. About how much she can help it. About how much is intentional. Because she was so screwed
over.
And then it still makes me think. Because my kids are just like her. Screwed over, too. Raised in the inner city.
Poor and fucked over too. But they are still able to thank people. And to see the good in people. And to be good
to people.
She hated it when people she knew felt sorry for themselves. When professors at college graded her papers differently,
because of who she was and where she came from. “Grade it like you’d grade a white girl’s,” she'd urge. And she
cautioned me about doing that with my kids. And those were the kinds of things we talked about for hours.
Only she really does want the sympathy. And she finds people who will give it to her. Who will pander to her.
Maybe she really feels useless. Useless because she was screwed over so very many times. Projection.
It makes me sad. It should make me angry. I am getting there.
And she doesn’t deserve to see the compliments or the exams or the reading scores. It would be useless.
Because I was screwed. She screwed me over. Intentionally.
And one day when she does get it, if she does get it, she will cry. She will cry as much as I have. For screwing
everyone over. Because she will realize that her life is now useless. That she is the one who is emotionally immature
and self centered and defensive. Projection.
And I won’t care any more. That she is screwed up. Or screwed over. Or just plain screwed. Because she screwed
me. And I didn’t ask for that except when she told me to. Because I wanted to unscrew her.
But that is useless.
So I won’t care.
So I put antibiotic and a Band-Aid on it. To make it heal.
Almost all of the light bulbs were out in my apartment. For over a month. And some still are. I tell my roommate
I think we have spirits. She opts to believe in planned obsolescence.
The night she came to my door, the light bulbs were out. But not all of them. That’s how she knew I was home. So
I made Sarah and Val turn off that last light bulb, but it didn’t help. She stayed. She stayed and yelled from
her car while her friend was banging on the door. And I just wished she would disappear - or extinguish herself.
Is there such a thing as planned obsolescence for an abusive girlfriend? Like at a certain point they just stop
working?
It didn’t happen that way that night. And then when the police came inside, as if they weren’t confused enough
by the situation, there was only one working light bulb in the house.
They say the first light bulbs they ever made, in the 1800s, are still working today. Because that was before they
realized that you don’t make money when things last. Planned obsolescence.
I used to be upset that we couldn’t last. That we never had a chance. And still I am, but the rational voice in
me gets louder each day. And I realize that the planned obsolescence of our relationship was the best thing that
could have happened. Because my spirit would have been extinguished.
And I want to put out a public advisory or something. Take out an ad in a lesbian magazine. Or put up billboards
in lesbian hotspots.
I saw them at the bar last week. They came in, looking as happy as ever. And for a moment I thought maybe I really
was the problem. Or the abuser. Or the liar. Or the manipulator. And as much as I tried to fight it, I was consumed
with jealousy, for the lack of obsolescence in their relationship. I was always jealous of that. But that was part
of her plan.
And so I just left. Because I was scared and shaking and jealous. And she didn’t need to see that.
And it’s not fair, that I can’t go out. That even though on Saturday night I didn’t run into her, I was paranoid
and looking over my shoulder the whole time, like I do at Diesel or anywhere in Davis Square. And it’s not fair.
That I still hope I do run into her. I do and I don’t. Because I’m not ready for all those lights to be out. So
I still leave one on for her.
So instead of staying in the club I went home and cried. I didn’t cry in front of her. I used to think crying gave
me power with her. And part of me still believes that. But really it was what she wanted. To see me cry. To see
how much she had affected me. I used to need her to get it. And I still do. Only now I know that she never will.
So instead of staying in the club I went home and cried. And read my coercion chart from my group. Tactics used
on prisoners of war, and mimicked by abusers and batterers. I read it to let some of the angry jealous bees in
the pit of my stomach escape. Because that is why "she" looks so happy. "She" is controlled.
And manipulated. And abused. Only "her" light bulb has not gone off yet.
And part of me hopes "she" sees through it all soon. Partly for me. Partly for "her". Validation
for both of us.
And then I hope maybe "she" doesn’t. Because maybe she will just fuck "her" over and not move
on to anyone else. And then maybe "she" is just a sacrifice for the rest of womankind. Because "she"
may already be past the point of no return.
I think of the women like that in my group. They also help the angry jealous bees to escape. Because I see what
my life would have become had it not been for planned obsolescence.
At group that week, I had felt empowered and ready for anything. And people commented on that. On how much more
present and balanced I was. And then she had to show up at the bar. And I was about to regress. But the light bulb
went off and so I just left.
I put my writing about her online. Or my writing about me. It’s online. And I hope she doesn’t see it. Only
I hope she does.
I read my writing about her at the bookstore last week. Or my writing about me. At the bookstore. And I didn’t
want her to know. Only I did.
I will be performing my writing about her at the slam on Sunday. Or my writing about me. At the slam. And I don’t
want her to be there. Only I hope she is.
It is betrayal. That’s what she would say. It is betrayal to write about her like this. Or write about me like
this. No, she would say about her. Because it’s always about her. Even when she pretends it’s about me.
And so at times I think I should go back and erase it. Take it offline. Take lines of it offline. Not read it out
loud. Not read the really mean stuff out loud. Because then she would feel better. And that’s all I ever wanted,
to make her feel better. And she claimed to want that for me too, only she didn’t.
And that’s why it stays online. And that’s why it will be read and performed. Because it’s not about her. And she
didn’t ever get that and she probably never will.
And now I am hot and sticky and uncomfortable. And maybe that is appropriate.
Uncomfortable. Not quite right. Not quite safe.
Like in bed. Hot and sticky and uncomfortable. Only she convinced me that I seemed to be doing just fine. She was
the one who was uncomfortable and unsafe. And hurt. I was doing just fine.
Not quite right. Not quite safe.
Like the first time I danced with her. Almost a year ago. Life before her. That is how time is now measured. Life
before, life during…almost at life after. Last summer. At the bar. I had seen her before, but it never felt quite
right. Or quite safe. And then the next week Valerie told her I thought she was cute, and she motioned for me to
come over. And we danced. And it felt uncomfortable. Sexy, but uncomfortable. And I didn’t look at her. And then
she did that thing with her hands, to motion for me to look in her eyes. “Right here, look right here,” she whispered.
And I was instantly creeped out. Not quite right.
And so I didn’t look at her or talk with her again. And my friends and I joked about that. How uncomfortable that
moment was. Life before her.
And then a few months later she showed up at the Women’s Center. And the first time she did I still was uncomfortable.
And my friends and I did that hand signal across the room, the “Look right here” one, as a joke. Life before her.
But then she came back. On the night of “Surviving Being Single.” And I decided to give her another chance, even
though it didn’t feel quite safe. Or quite right. I had been too rash.
Really that perception, the one at the bar, had been right. Life before her was filled with gut instincts and good
decisions. Sometimes too many good decisions. Ones that made me never take risks. Always safe. Always right. Always
comfortable.
She saw that. She recognized that. My perception. I was going to be a challenge. Hot and sticky and uncomfortable.
But she is a professional and she knows that. And so it worked. Only it didn’t. Because it’s not always about her.
Life after her.
How good does it feel now, to leave me defeated?
How good does it feel when you know that you cheated?
Does it make you feel good? Does it make you feel strong?
To just make up rules as you go right along?
When you play against someone, it goes without saying,
That she should be told of the game she is playing.
You wasted no time in this game to betray me
Cuz I gave you the handbook on just how to play me.
While you ran and hid behind shadows and lied,
I exposed all my fears that lay deep inside.
And now I think back to February
When you wrote about how you reveled in me.
But really you revel in the madness that unwinds
As you manipulate people and fuck with our minds.
And convince us that we are the ones you can blame
For your sadness, your hurt, your guilt and your shame.
You convinced me that I was the one who was lying,
I wasn’t a good friend, I hadn’t been trying.
So in order to convince you that my love was true,
I put truth itself on the back burner for you.
And eventually I just relinquished the questions,
Along with my guard and all my defenses.
And so you were able to steal my perception
Because of your skill with the art of deception.
You said you loved how well I could read you
And how smart I was and how that could feed you.
Like how even though I am small and I’m cute,
I can sure whip your ass in Trivial Pursuit.
And even though I am one half your size,
You loved that with just my legs and my thighs,
I could flip you right over in that bed,
And we laughed and we joked - “Leverage,” you said.
They told me that what a batterer does
Is squash out just those things that she claimed to love.
So much of the time I feel sorry for you
Cuz it seems you just don’t know what else to do.
But for you this all seems to be working just fine,
With women all standing outside in a line,
Fearing your wrath, or worse, your rejection,
Begging and pleading to win your affection,
Fighting over the honor of just being picked
To nurse you when you’re lonely, despondent or sick.
And we learn to measure our own self esteem
By how well we help you when you are in need.
Or rather how well you say that we do
Because really, Baby, it’s all about you.
So we massage your belly and we rub your thighs
And we hold you close and we dry your eyes.
And then you accuse us of things you yourself do,
Til we don’t know what’s what and we don’t know who’s who.
And when we suggest that maybe you’ve hurt us,
You talk us in circles, make threats to desert us,
Until we apologize, hold you, and cave,
And we bring you gifts and in order to save
You from any more trauma or any more pain
We acknowledge that we are the ones you can blame.
And internalize all of your shame and your guilt
So it’s worked for you now, this system you’ve built.
And that is why now I am not jealous of
Those you keep in cuz that is not love.
So now that I know your game inside and out,
I want a rematch without a doubt.
I just want a chance to play this game right,
To go against you and put up a fight.
Cuz now that I see through your song and your dance,
Baby, you don’t even stand half a chance.
I can call you out now on all of your shit,
Hell, you yourself said that we could match wits.
But as much as I’d like it to now play along,
You just ain’t worth it so I’m movin’ on.
Yes, I still have a need to make you all better,
So I wrote you that prayer and I sent you that letter.
But, Baby, I’ve learned now that I’m not your savior,
Cuz I just can't cure sociopathic behavior.
And your lesson learned? Girl, you already know it,
Next time think twice before you fuck with a poet.
For the first time in a long while, I don’t have a burning compulsion to write about her.
Okay - rephrase. For the first time in six months, I have nothing concrete to say about her, but I still have a
burning compulsion to write about her.
And I don’t know if that’s good or if that’s bad.
For 6 months I have thought only of her.
Before four months ago, I was still able to write about other things. Write about other things and then share them
with her.
But for four months it has only been her and now I fear I have no other subject matter. Because everything else
seems trivial or meaningless or insubstantial by comparison.
For the first time in a long while, I am bored with this topic.
But I am not.
Because there is still so much to figure out. About her. About me. About it.
Like what was truth. What was truth and what was lies and what was manipulation and what was an honest attempt
at change. And how much of that will I never know and when will I be content with that? Or at least okay with it.
With not knowing.
Last night before the slam Tracy was reading some of my writing. Writing I’ve done since March. 200 pages of it.
And she got to the piece with her writing mixed in. And she was captivated. And so now at least I know I am not
the only one. Who finds it captivating.
Only Tracy found it captivating as a kind of case study. How much was truth, how much was manipulation. And she
had to stop. A lot. “Jesus Christ, Lani,” she’d exhale, “this shit is fuckin unbelievable. No wonder.”
No wonder.
I don’t really read them any more. Maybe it’s because I’ve memorized them. Maybe it’s because it hurts so much.
Maybe it’s because I don’t care as much. Maybe it’s because I’m beginning to stop looking for answers. Or answers
from her.
It was hard to slam about her. And I wondered if people saw that. How hard that was. Because it felt like the ultimate
act of betrayal.
I tried picturing her there. To make it more real. Or for vindication. But it only terrified me.
Today in class I saw her in the hallway. Only she wasn’t there.
No wonder.
It’s going to be a crazy 6 weeks. A crazy 6 weeks of six classes jammed into a 6 week semester and I was overwhelmed
and tired and so I saw her in the hallway when she was not even there.
And it’s a good thing. Because with 3 courses in a 6 week semester there is no time for her. There wasn’t even
time for her when there was time for her. And so there is relief at that. At the health and sanity of being more
outside of it than I have been in 6 months. Of not crying every night and not trying to call and not waiting breathlessly
for her phone call or email that may or may not come. Of not apologizing for my feelings or my hurt or my suspicions.
Of having my perception back. Or part of it back.
My therapist and I agreed that my writing was a step ahead of me. Or maybe a few steps. A bit more removed than
I am from the situation. A bit more angry at her than I am. Or a lot more angry at her than I am.
Sometimes I think she stole my writing from me. Because I used to have lots to write about. 6 months ago. And now
that she is gone and everything else is coming back I am stuck. Because she is not quite gone and I am not quite
back and so what is a writer to do?
And I thought about that on my way over. And thought of not coming at all. Because it was all giving me a headache.
Classes all day and not really seeing her in the hallway and the slam last night. Headaches. Like the kind I had
for 6 months. About other things. Things that are now gone so I’ve replaced them with things more trivial. Or more
healthy. Or both.
And I still have a headache. From not knowing what to write. Or what to think. Or how to heal when you don’t know
what to think. Or how to think when you don’t know what to feel.
Child development class today. The 4 domains of studying human development. Physical, cognitive, social, emotional.
And I instantly thought of her. At which of those had been arrested and why and how. And how much does she even
know about it and how much does she even care?
And then I made myself stop thinking about her. Because there will be enough to think of in 6 weeks of that class.
Birth to adolescence in 6 weeks. Like the lessons I learned in 6 months. Rapid fire.
Candlelight. Soft. Gentle. Flickering. Hiding imperfections.
I love how I look in candlelight. And how she looked at me. And how she looked. Hiding imperfections.
A vanilla candle burning atop my dresser, casting a faint flickering light over the room. In that moment between
arguments or accusations. That moment I frantically held onto. In bed. No imperfections. For a moment. Momentary
solace. In her arms. In the candlelight.
And I need to hold onto that. Almost as much as I need to forget it. How some moments were just so good. Because
I could bury my face in her coconut hair and run my fingers along the bullet scar on her upper arm and glide my
tongue along the labret ring under her lower lip. Because her skin was dark and soft and when the light would hit
the lighter birthmark on her cheek, I knew for sure that she was really there. That she hadn’t left. Not yet.
Not yet.
Still there and safe, or pretending to be safe. And now sometimes at night I imagine that. That she is there. That
that candle on my dresser is still burning and that we are just frozen in a moment of time when the light hits
her birthmark on her cheek and I run my fingers along her cheekbones and I look in her eyes and she tells me, “God,
I love you, Lane. I need you. Wait for me. You make my teeth soft.”
I think about it. And feel it. And I am warm and sad and nostalgic for that moment.
Only eventually the lights would go on and accusations would fly. I had meant to hurt her. When I asked what she
would wear to the slam. When I asked to be held. When I touched her. Or didn’t touch her. And those moments by
candlelight became fewer and fewer and shorter and shorter. And much less safe. Because of the fear of hurting
her. Of unknowingly and unintentionally hurting her.
And I would love to just be angry at it. At the accusations and the lies and the manipulation. And I would love
to say that I am only nostalgic for those precious few moments of illusory safety.
But then I really would be lying, just like she said.
Because I was and am just as attracted to the moments when the lights came on. To her contorted face. And the way
her hand would hit her fist. And the way she used words when she was angry. And the way she would later hold me
when I said that I was sorry. And sad. And scared. The cycle.
It was real. She was real. I was real with her. An illusory realness. One that existed only by candlelight and
was unsafe and scary and real.
I have felt very unreal lately. No candlelight. And so I haven’t like how I have looked. 20 pounds thinner but
still not fitting in my skin. Clothes falling off.
So I opt for retail therapy. Clothes with Erica at Express. Cute lacey tops to wear with my mini skirts. Makeup.
$60 for foundation and powder at Prescriptives - to hide imperfections. Because you don’t walk around by candlelight.
And I wore the new top and the new makeup to class today. My first day of class. My first day of my new life.
And I didn’t like the way I looked. Under the fluorescent classroom lights. Because I looked like everyone else.
It’s an odd occasion for me when I look like every other girl in the room. When everyone else has makeup and manicures
too. And I didn’t like it.
Because I am not really like them. Not really like those girls. And I didn’t like the way I looked. The way I looked
like them.
That’s where having her around was helpful. No confusion as to who I was. Or less confusion.
And then I think perhaps her accusations were right. That I was using her as a male escort. Showing her off. Because
I shouldn’t need a butchie black dyke girlfriend around to show others who I am, or to show myself. Or to hide
imperfections.
And I think of all the times I wanted her to hit me. So that she would like me better. So that I would like her
better.
So that she would see that I would stay. I would pass that test and then she wouldn’t always have to leave because
that fear of me leaving first would be gone.
And then I would have a reason for my hurt and my insanity. For my skin not fitting. Because you only see what
manipulation and deceit and power games do to you when you are no longer being manipulated or deceived or played.
And so I wanted her to hit me. Hit me and then make it better.
And I had it all worked out in my head. How I would apologize to her by candlelight. After she had hit me.
Today in class I imagined her showing up. Because I have not called or emailed and so she’d have realized she lost
power and she’d have wanted it back and so she showed up at class. And I was terrified of the image of her ranting
outside my door. And I was embarrassed. And ashamed. Ashamed as we were talking about shame and emotional and social
and cognitive development. Ashamed that she had showed up. Ashamed that she was scaring me. Ashamed that I liked
it. Because then those girls would know I was not like them.
I used to have photos of her on my computer. Before it crashed in February. It crashed right before one of our
crazy weekends. A crazy weekend of accusations and then apologies and dissipating hurt during hours of conversations
in bed. Hours of conversation in bed right before her "friend" showed up at the door and banged and yelled
and threatened. And she had to leave. And that was a snippet of what was to come. And I missed her when she left.
And that too was a snippet.
I never put those photos back on my computer. Even during the good times of the following few weeks, or the good
times of the week a month later, after we got back together after the first breakup, I didn’t put those photos
back on. And it’s a good thing. Because I still wouldn’t have taken them off. And I would miss her even more.
I used to have photos of my kids on my computer. Before it crashed in February. And I would look at them all the
time. And look at them with her. And talk about them. About how much I loved them. How much I loved them even though
they drove me crazy. And she loved it when I did that. And she loved me when I did that. When I obsessed over my
kids. Or when I obsessed over her. And now I miss them. I miss them all. And I have no photos.
Like the one of Joseph and his million dollar smile. The one he would flash when he got a question right. Or when
he was trying to win you over. Or the one of her million dollar smile. The one she would flash when I apologized.
Or when I brought her a gift. To win her over.
Like the one of Maria. Crazy Maria. Always looking for attention. Lying for attention. The seductive pose she made
for the camera. Pathological lying, needy Maria. She didn’t pose like that. Not for pictures at least.
Like the one of Jarred. Not smiling. Playing it serious. Jarred who got angry when I asked him why he was late
to class. I asked him and he stormed away, screaming that I was asking too many questions. And I smiled. Because
I had heard that recently, from her.
Like the one of Markia. Oh man, Markia. The total pain in the ass. Always arguing. But intermittently so funny
and charming and smart and agreeable that you can’t help but love her. Her favorite stories were the ones about
Markia.
Like the ones of Sandi and Shakina at New Words. Shakina - tall and passionate and gorgeous. And Sandi, small but
not really small. Larger than life really. Fiery. Angry. A genius with words. Her. She was supposed to come that
night. I had IMed her about it. In November, before we were dating. She never showed up. And I should have remembered
that more than I did.
Like the one of Michelle. In the picture, she looked sideways at the camera, out of the corner of her eye, like
she was crazy. Only it was because she wasn’t wearing her glasses. Michelle with a learning disability. Smart but
struggling. She said she didn’t write back as much because of her learning disability. It took her hours to compose
an email to me. At least Michelle never used hers an excuse. Just like she didn’t lie about the glasses, when you
really pressed her.
Like the one of Rolanda. Sweet and innocent, but with eyes that told her million stories. Of her mom with HIV and
her uncle who was killed. Eyes that told the story of what would happen later that year, when her cousin was gunned
down on his bike in daylight. And Rolanda would come to school with a handwritten note on white lined paper that
said, “Ms. Radack, I won’t be in school tomorrow. My cousin was shot. It was all over the news.” And I wrote her
an email about that. Because I thought she was the only one who would understand.
Like the one of Jenelle. Jenelle who would argue with me til I was blue in the face. So tough in the picture. But
Jenelle who always came around. In her own time. Some people learn from their mistakes. Some people want to.
Like the one of Estrella or the one of Marcia. Stars of the class. Silent, but deadly. Estrella who is illegal
and has every reason to be angry about that and every reason to take advantage of people, but Estrella who is the
last kid on earth who would do that. She loved hearing about Estrella too. Maybe she wished she had taken that
route.
Before her, my kids were my obsession. And I shared it with her. And she loved it. And she loved me when I shared.
Or she was reliving something she wished she had.
And I was too. With the kids and with her. Real problems. Real hurt.
And now I miss them both. And I have no pictures to remind me. And that is probably a good thing.
We had a prompt just like this last month. No, it was May. And May was not last month. May was two months ago.
We had a prompt that was zit creams. I remember. Because I remember all of the writing I have done. And especially
writing I have done since March, which was 4 months ago.
The zit cream writing. It was called Faded Scent Memories Rushed. And I wrote it the week after she had come to
my door and was arrested. No, two weeks after. Because the week after no one was at workshop so I had a three hour
private therapy session.
Faded Scent Memories Rushed. About seeing her and what happened from there. About what happens when you see someone
you haven't seen. When you smell her.
Last week we learned in class that your olfactory abilities are developed early on. Because they are located in
your brain stem and that is the first part of your central nervous system to develop. So that's why we have such
a visceral reaction to smells.
And that happened in May - two months ago. Or a month and a half. And I tried not to cave and cower and that made
her even more angry and that's how she ended up at my door and that's how I ended up hysterical.
But I saw her recently. And it was not the same. No tears. Pounding hearts, yes. Shallow breaths, yes. But no tears.
At least not in front of her. And that made her so mad. That I wasn't cowering. That we weren't cowering. Because
now there are two of us. Two of us who have gotten out. And we stood strong. And watched her squirm. And caught
her in lies only she still says she isn't lying. And when it got too much for her she left. Because two months
later it is so much clearer.
Three days before that had not gone quite as well. With scary accusations and madness and fear. I had already left,
but I knew that would happen. It always does. It's formulaic. Meant to scare people into submission. To reinforce
power. To lay a groundwork so that she can later say she was out of control and couldn't help it - and that is
hard to argue with. Because she is so out of control. To throw us into disequilibrium.
I learned about that today in class. Only minutes after I had told my whole story to my professor in her office.
Because she is funny and smart and she seems to get a lot - so it just came out. Because her class - when we are
studying the development of the brain - it all connects so much to her. Or to what she does. Or to what she did
to me. How her own brain developed. How the neurons misfire all the time, because connections were not made properly.
How it is quite possible she doesn't even have emotions, not like I have. And how she knows so much about the brain.
How if she throws people into disequilibrium and then replaces that with her ideas of reality that a person's perceptions
will shift. And that is brainwashing. And that is mean.
Today we watched a video. A toddler bouncing a red ball. And then finding a tomato. And she throws it, but it squashes
to the ground. And she cries. Disequlibrium. Not all red balls bounce. A new connection made. A new neurotransmitter
activated.
And that is what she does. And that is brainwashing. And that is mean.
What else we learned - that sleep allows us to integrate what we have learned. That that is why infants sleep so
much. Because everything is new so everything requires integration.
I hardly slept during those months. Disequilibrium. Lack of integration. Lessons not learned. Not then.
She never sleeps. Insomnia. Lessons not learned. Not then. Not now.
Nature or nurture. We talk about that a lot. In class. How much of us is in our DNA? My professor argues toward
nature. That we have propensities. Ranges of reaction. That nurture can push us toward one or another end of our
range, but that we still have innate ranges. So was she predisposed to violence? To insanity? Or did those neurotransmitters
not develop properly because of everything that was going on? Or was it both? Or does it matter? Because what she
does is mean, whether or not she can help it.
Last night I was not ready to sleep, even though I had a lot to integrate. From school. From reading. From the
events of the weekend. So I picked up a book on battering that was on my shelf. It had been on my shelf for a long
time. Since college. When I studied that. And I read it and it all made so much more sense. Because of her. Because
of who I was. Because of learning about the brain.
The brain. Complex. Paths we do not use during the windows of opportunity that close forever. Pruning. Like babies
born with no signs of eye problems. And then you put a patch over their eyes during the critical phase of visual
development and when the patch is off they are blind forever. Because those neurons are not needed.
Like her. Emotional pathways forever closed.
Or so it seems. And this all works so well for her. And she knows so much about the brain. And that allows her
to do it so well. That email she wrote me. When we started dating again. About me as the victim and her as my poison
- "poisonous black glass." About "rapid fire sodium ions all shook up" and "image after
image of love fired off the synapse". About "victim leans back" and "calculated submission"
and "tension in her thigh, a gesture to win back her mind". About how "she will object to her own
dream through inhalation" "coconut oil" and "the sweetness of its delusion".
Nature or nurture? Predisposition?
Either way, she knows what she is doing. And she may or may not be able to help it, but she knows. And that is
scary. And sick. And mean. And I want to cry. I want to cry. But I don't. Not anymore. Not like two months ago.
I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto.
No, this sure ain't Kansas.
Because nothing here makes sense and nothing here is familiar, but so much is familiar.
Familiar hurt, familiar faces, familiar arguments.
So if I am Dorothy, who are you?
The Wicked Witch of the West?
I'll get you, my pretty! And your little dog too!
My captor. You said pets didn't have emotions.
Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep.
Like when you wrote to me. "Pagan Poetry." About "swirling black lillies totally ripe" and
"what is this, an affair?"
The Wicked Witch and poppies. Poppies in Pagan Poetry.
Or are you The Wizard? With a cult of followers, just like you have. All seeking you out? Fearful of you? Of your
wrath? But really you are just a scared little fuck behind a curtain?
A scared little fuck. And fuck this prompt. Because it is clichés and you made me hate clichés. Because
I would use them and you would get mad and then it was the wrath.
A scared little fuck.
Like when we watched Good Will Hunting. I made you watch it. The night you came over when you agreed to talk to
me again. And to hear my writing. I made you watch it. And you cried. A breakthrough. You were now Matt Damon and
I was Minnie Driver and Robin Williams all in one. Like you are the Wicked Witch and the Wizard all in one. And
the tin man - no heart. And the lion - no courage. Not the scarecrow. Definitely not the scarecrow. Because the
one thing you do have is your brain. And it is brilliant. Fucking brilliant. Only it is so fucking brilliant that
it is fucked up. Rewired. Faulty wiring. Maybe you are the scarecrow, needing a new brain.
If I only had a brain...
Anyway, we watched it. Not the Wizard of Oz, but Good Will Hunting. We didn't finish. You were too sad. But you
held me. God you held me. And then it all started again. And I sent you the DVD.
And now that is what you are calling yourself. Like Good Will Hunting, you told her. And I hate that I showed it
to you. I hate it now. Because now you stole that and made it part of the new life you are pretending to live.
An illusory life. Like Oz.
And I don't know why it makes me so mad, that you've changed your name. That you changed it to something that was
my idea. It was my idea that you were him. And I told you that.
And then you were in the hospital, and you told them you were there because of me, because I had lied and manipulated
you, because I had destroyed you and so you had taken too many pills and now that is what you are calling yourself.
And I refuse to go along with it. And it is not transphobia and it is not internalized homophobia. It is that I
hate you and that you make no sense.
Because we just had this conversation 3 months ago, right after Good Will Hunting. And you had said that you hated
how some many butch dykes were now identifying as trans. How you were one of a dying breed. How I was the only
person who seemed to get your identity. How you wanted to be recognized as female and use female pronouns and that
was 3 months ago and then less than 2 months later you were him and I disrespected you and had hurt you so much
that you had tried to kill yourself.
So I hate that I had you watch that. Because he had redeeming qualities. Or he was redeemable. And willing to change.
And wanting to change. And you are not.
So maybe I should have had you watch The Wizard of Oz. So you can see that illusory worlds don't really exist.
Or that scaring people into submission doesn't really work if you're just a stupid fuck behind a curtain. That
wicked witches melt when you pour water on them. That the soldiers and monkeys who blindly followed the witch thank
you when you kill her, because really they were just scared.
And I see that in her. How scared she is of you. How she has become an extension of you. How you have manipulated
her into submission. And I want to rescue her. Because she is almost at the point of no return and I want to rescue
her. To take her somewhere over that fucking cliché as hell rainbow and allow her to see what you have done
to her.
But she is in the illusion. Overdose of poppies. And she thinks I am a lying, manipulative bitch. Your words. Out
of her mouth. So I sit and watch you destroy her. And I only hope you melt first. Or that she thinks to look behind
the curtain. Clichés.
If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at radacklani[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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